


Satellite Heart

by mardia



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Classical Music, M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the longest time, McCoy leaves the piano in the rec room alone. Never mind that it was originally his to begin with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satellite Heart

When McCoy gets the message to come down to the loading dock, he brings his medical kit with him, assuming there’s an injury he needs to treat. 

But nobody’s injured when he gets there, not even Jim, who’s standing in the middle of the dock next to a large crate, his arms folded and his eyebrow raised. 

“Jim?”

“You’ve got a package, Bones,” Jim explains, and McCoy blinks at him for a moment before staring at the crate. 

“You’re kidding me,” he says flatly. “What the hell is it?”

“According to the shipping manifest, it’s a baby grand piano,” Jim tells him, to McCoy’s astonishment. “Sent to you by a Jocelyn Darnell from Atlanta, Georgia.”

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me,” McCoy groans, and Jim shakes his head. 

“I am really, really not, Bones, and seriously, I don’t know which part to ask you about first—the fact that your ex-wife is sending you packages, or the fact that she’s sending you _baby grand pianos_.”

“The piano’s mine,” McCoy explains absently, still staring at the crate. “At least I’m pretty sure it’s the one I left behind in Georgia. I just don’t know why she’s sending it to me now, and _here_ of all places—”

“Yeah, don’t ask me how she managed to con Starfleet into sending this onto a starship, Bones, because I have no idea.” Jim glances over at the crate again, and admits, “I’m actually kind of impressed.”

McCoy stares at the crate for a second longer, then shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

***

“So, I got a fairly unusual package in the mail today, Joce,” McCoy tells Jocelyn over the vidscreen later that evening. 

Jocelyn’s face breaks into a smile, and even though they’ve spent the last year since the Narada incident and the start of the Enterprise’s five-year mission tentatively reconnecting, sending messages back and forth, it’s been a while since McCoy’s seen that smile sent in his direction without any hidden barb in it. “So you finally got it, then,” she says, sounding happy, and McCoy stares at her in surprise. 

“Joce,” he finally says after a moment, “—just how the hell did you con Starfleet into agreeing to send me a piano out here in the middle of space? And why the hell would you do it in the first place?”

On the screen, Jocelyn’s shoulders come up in a shrug as she says simply, “The piano’s yours, Len. God knows I’m not using it.”

He knows that’s true. Jocelyn’s never played a note for as long as he’s known her, and she’s shown little interest in doing so. That still doesn’t explain why she’s sending it out to him in the middle of space, or how she even managed to get Starfleet to go along with it, and he tells her so.

Jocelyn shrugs, and nonchalantly tells him, “I might have dropped your name a time or two. And when that didn’t work, I dropped your captain’s name instead.”

“Joce—”

“Ends justify the means, McCoy,” Jocelyn tells him, completely unrepentant. “Besides, it was gathering dust in the house, and going out of tune to boot.” McCoy winces reflexively, and Jocelyn snorts in vindication. “See? So it’s better off with you, even if it is out in the middle of space.” She looks at him and says more gently, “Len. The piano was always yours, and it’d be a shame to waste it.”

McCoy hears the door to his quarters slide open, and knows without looking who it is—there are only a handful of people on this ship who can override the locking mechanism, and only one who actually would.

He ignores Jim’s presence for the moment, and says to Jocelyn, “Well, I still can’t believe you sent it, and I’m still not sure _how_ you sent it, but—thanks, anyway.”

“You’re welcome, Leonard,” Jocelyn says, rolling her eyes. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Yeah,” McCoy agrees. “Talk to you soon, Joce.” 

He signs off, and turns in his seat to look at Jim, who’s leaning against the wall, his eyebrow raised. “So, that’s Jocelyn, huh?” Jim remarks.

McCoy leans back in his seat. “Yeah, Jim. That’s my ex.”

“I didn’t know you were talking to your ex, Bones,” Jim says lightly, but his gaze is focused on McCoy in a way that’s…well. 

McCoy stops himself from retorting, _That’s because I didn’t tell you, Jim_. Instead, McCoy just says, “We’ve been talking for a while, Jim. Not a big deal, just sending messages back and forth, that’s all.”

“Yeah?” Jim responds, moving to sit down in the chair that’s been designated Jim’s chair, since he sits in it more than anyone else. “For how long?”

The question’s asked in a casual tone, but McCoy knows better than to believe that. “Since after the Narada,” he says finally. “She sent a message, hoping that I was doing all right. I responded, and…we’ve been talking ever since.”

Jim’s mouth twists for a second, but to McCoy’s surprise, he doesn’t press further, at least on that particular topic. “And the piano?”

“It was mine when we were married,” McCoy tells him. “I guess she thought I’d get some use out of it, now that I’m stuck out in space on a five-year mission.”

“I didn’t know you played.”

“Since I was five,” McCoy tells him. “Fell out of practice years ago, though.” For a second, he flashes back to being in the living room of his childhood home, of his mother sitting next to him on the bench and patiently talking him through picking out a simple melody. 

Jim leans back in his seat. “So, Bones. I’ve got a piano sitting in my loading dock and I don’t know what to do with it. You got any ideas?”

“Put it in the rec room,” McCoy tells him. 

Jim’s eyebrows go up as he asks, surprised, “You want to put it in the rec room?”

“Well, where else is it going to go?” McCoy asks. “I mean, hell, Jim it’s not as if it’ll fit in my quarters—or if it did, it’d leave precious room for anything else. Hell, the only quarters it _might_ fit into are yours, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want a piano taking up that much room.”

Jim purses his lips, as if he’s actually considering it. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says after a moment.

McCoy blinks, but chooses to ignore what Jim’s just said, forces himself not to think about what it could mean. “Put it in the rec room, Jim, it’ll be fine,” he says firmly, and Jim nods after a moment, conceding. 

***

The piano’s arrival causes a quiet ripple of excitement through the ship, and thanks to the gossip mill, it quickly becomes common knowledge that the piano was originally McCoy’s.

“Do you still play?” Scotty asks at lunch the next day.

“No,” McCoy says quickly. “I fell out of the habit years ago,” and across the table, Jim lifts his eyes and looks at him, and McCoy’s not sure what to read into his gaze, but then, he’s had to stop himself from reading more into Jim’s expressions for years. It’s not so hard to keep himself from doing it now.

“Well, I might have a go later tonight,” Scotty says with relish. “Bang out a couple of tunes, show you lot what real music sounds like.”

McCoy grins as Scotty rattles off the playlist he’s planning on, and the conversation doesn’t come back around to McCoy’s piano playing for the rest of lunch.

***

McCoy’s not surprised that Jim doesn’t forget about it. The only surprise is that Jim waits as long as he does to bring it up. 

The piano’s been in the rec room for almost three weeks, long enough that McCoy’s almost gotten used to the sight of other people sitting down at the bench, picking out simple tunes or performing complicated songs. 

Sure enough, Scotty’s one of the most frequent performers, accompanying Uhura as she sings the old ballad ‘Beyond Antares’ to the appreciation of the audience, who’s gotten tired of tone-deaf singers and welcomes someone who can actually carry a tune, let alone sing the way that Uhura can.

And on those nights, McCoy sits next to Jim, enjoying the music, sure, but a part of him is wondering when Jim’s going to ask McCoy to play, wondering whether he’ll needle or just browbeat McCoy into it.

But Jim doesn’t ask, and if McCoy can feel Jim’s eyes on him when someone else steps up to that piano bench, he can also ignore it, and he does. 

Until the night that Jim comms him, the message short: _Rec room, 2230. Be there, Bones_. 

And sure, this could be about a chess game, maybe even a game of pool or cards. But somehow McCoy doesn’t think so. And when he gets to the rec room, which is empty except for Jim, who’s sitting by the piano bench, McCoy knows Jim doesn’t want to play chess.

“Jim, what’s going on?”

“I thought you probably wouldn’t agree if there was a big audience,” Jim says. “So it’s just you and me.”

McCoy sighs. “Jim, I told you, I haven’t played in years—”

“But you still can,” Jim asserts, not a trace of doubt in his voice. He’s always been like that, though, had this faith in him that McCoy’s never been able to understand, not really, even as he tries to live up to it. “Bones, c’mon. I just wanna hear you play.”

McCoy doesn’t move, and now Jim’s the one who’s sighing, and McCoy braces himself for the usual full-frontal assault he’s come to expect from Jim when he’s trying to talk McCoy into something.

That’s not what he gets. Instead, he gets Jim looking him in the eye and asking sincerely, “Bones, please.”

Oh, hell.

McCoy doesn’t move for another second, and then he’s walking forward towards a beaming Jim and the piano, grumbling under his breath, “Dammit, I haven’t played in _years_ , Jim, I’m not kidding about that, I probably don’t even remember which notes are which—”

“Sure you do,” Jim tells him confidently, and McCoy expects Jim to move off the piano bench as he slides on, but Jim stays right where he is, his side pressed up against McCoy’s, warm and solid. 

And the thing is that Jim’s right. 

McCoy stares down at the keys for a moment before finally resting his hands on them. He briefly thinks of running through some scales, just to warm up his muscle memory, but when his hands start moving, he’s playing one of the old, old songs from his childhood, a [centuries-old hymn](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=icdWEpGjWto) that he’d learned when he was young.

Jim’s silent as he plays, McCoy dragging the right notes out from his memories, until he finally asks quietly, “Where’d you learn to play, Bones?”

“My mother’s a music teacher, Jim,” McCoy explains quietly, keeping his focus on the keys. “She had me playing from the time I was five and I just—stayed with it, growing up.” He could add more, talk about how this was the way he bonded with his mother, like his science homework was how he bonded with his dad. How his mother’s face would light up when he sat down at the piano of his own volition and started playing the music she’d taught him to love.

“You’re good,” Jim comments, and McCoy does look at him then, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. 

“This isn’t really that hard a song,” he points out, and Jim grins back.

“So play me something harder, then,” Jim shoots back, and yeah, McCoy probably should have seen that coming.

He makes a face at Jim, but opens up the touch-screen on the piano to look at the sheet music that’s programmed in it. 

Chopin was always a favorite of his mother’s, and McCoy smiles as he surveys the choices and then picks the one he wants. 

He hasn’t played the [Minute Waltz](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y2L68e7beYA) in years, but the entire thing’s like riding a bike, his fingers going exactly where he means them to go, blazing through it as fast as he can. The song’s meant to catch the feel of a dog chasing its own tail, but for McCoy, he’s always pictured it as himself chasing after the song, as quickly and as precisely as possible.

When he finishes, Jim’s staring at him, eyes wide and impressed. “Bones,” he says, half-laughing, “you’re _awesome_.”

“It’s not that—”

“Yeah, it is,” Jim insists. “Bones, it’s _exactly_ that impressive.” He looks at McCoy for a long, silent moment. McCoy drops his gaze, his face going hot, even as he curses himself for it. He’s not some blushing schoolgirl, and even if there is something different in the way Jim’s looking at him now—which there isn’t—he doesn’t mean anything by it. He never does. 

For nothing else to do, he starts fiddling around with other possible choices—Beethoven, Mozart, Strauss. 

After a few more moments of silence, Jim finally asks, “Bones, how am I just now finding out about all this?”

“About the piano playing?’ McCoy responds. “Jim, it honestly just didn’t come up.”

“About all of it,” Jim clarifies, and yeah—Jim’s not talking about the piano playing anymore. Or at least not _just_ about the piano playing. “I’m not—Bones, I’m not getting how you and Jocelyn progressed from her taking the whole planet in the divorce to her sending you a _piano_ out of the blue.”

“I told you, Jim, we’ve been talking lately,” McCoy responds, but he knows Jim’s not going to be satisfied with that, and sure enough, the look on his face makes it clear that McCoy’s not getting off that easy. 

So he takes a breath and tries to explain. 

“She commed me, after we got back to Earth, and—hell, Jim, after everything we’d just been through with Nero, everything we’d seen—it would’ve been petty to hang on to that anger. Jocelyn was my best friend once. If there was a chance that we could salvage at least some of that—I had to try.”

Jim’s gaze is lowered, and after a second he nods. “Yeah, I get it, I just—” He cuts himself off and looks up again, into McCoy’s face. “So what happens now? Are you—going to try and reconcile or something?”

McCoy gapes at Jim, twisting his body around to face him. “What—Jesus, Jim, of course not.” Jim doesn’t look convinced, and McCoy points out, exasperated, “Jim, I’m in _space._ How the hell could we manage to reconcile with me millions of light-years away, even if we wanted to? Which, for the record, we _don’t_.”

A corner of Jim’s mouth tilts up, and he concedes, “Yeah, that’d probably be an issue.” He’s looking at McCoy again in that way McCoy doesn’t understand, but McCoy tries to meet his gaze regardless. 

After a long moment of the two of them just—staring at each other, Jim nudges McCoy with his shoulder, smiling again. 

“Play something else,” he encourages.

McCoy ends up picking another Chopin, a [piece from one of the concertos](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ZUw78FXpG4), and Jim doesn’t say anything while McCoy plays. He just listens and watches, a warm presence against McCoy’s side. 

***

Things go like that for a while—Jim clearing out the rec room through means McCoy’s not quite sure of and has decided not to look into too closely, and McCoy playing everything from centuries-old classics to the latest songs, while Jim sits just a little bit too close to him on the tiny piano bench, leaning in and watching McCoy’s hands as he plays. 

Jim never presses for McCoy to play when other people are around, and McCoy’s relieved—he’s never been one for stage fright, exactly, but there’s something nice about it being just the two of them…besides the obvious reason that McCoy still doesn’t like to examine too closely.

It’s just that now there are demands on their time and attention. Before, back at the Academy, as busy as they were with the coursework, they still had plenty of time to simply spend together. He was Jim’s best and only real friend there, and it was the same on McCoy’s end. But now in addition to their duties, Jim’s striking up a friendship with Spock, and McCoy’s becoming good drinking buddies with Scotty. He and Jim are still close, of course, but—it’s not like before, when they were basically living in each other’s pockets, roommates and best friends at the same time. 

Things just aren’t like that anymore, and that’s a good thing, McCoy knows. They aren’t the people they were at the Academy, two outsiders with chips on their shoulders and things they needed to prove to themselves and everyone else.

And in a way, McCoy figures he should be relieved at that—if anything, it’s giving McCoy the chance to let go of something he should have forgotten about ages ago. But it hasn’t worked out like that, much to his frustration. 

It’s still there, and McCoy can’t seem to shake it, no matter how much he may want to. 

***

McCoy’s playing [Debussy](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79UfWizjGiQ) when they get interrupted for the first time. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Uhura blurts out, looking startled to open the door and find them there. She glances from McCoy to Jim and back again, and asks, hesitantly, “Am I interrupting?”

“Uh, no,” McCoy says quickly, a part of him realizing what this looks like—the closed-off room, Jim sitting next to him on the piano bench—“No, it’s fine, I didn’t realize the door was locked,” he adds, which—well, it’s not a complete lie. He’d just _assumed_ the door was locked.

“I didn’t realize it _wasn’t_ locked,” Jim mumbles, and McCoy shoots a look at him, but Jim’s smiling at Uhura now and saying, “Come on in, Lieutenant.”

Uhura takes him up on it, stepping in closer and saying to McCoy, “I thought you didn’t play.”

McCoy shrugs. “Jim got me into the habit again,” he explains. 

“Well, you’re very good,” Uhura tells him, smiling. “You should play for the crew sometime.” She glances over at Jim, and says quickly, “I’ll let you two get back to it. Have a good night.”

She slips out as quickly as she appeared, and McCoy glances at Jim out of the corner of his eye. “Why do I feel like we just got caught at something?” he asks after a moment.

“Because you’re paranoid,” Jim automatically replies, but he doesn’t look at McCoy as he says it. Instead, Jim just nudges him again and says, “Now come on and play some more before we get interrupted again.”

It sticks with McCoy, though. How Jim’s the only person he plays for, and how McCoy might like that fact a little bit more than he should.

So when he’s in the rec room with the rest of the crew, and Uhura suggests that McCoy play the piano, McCoy doesn’t brush her off. Instead, he takes a breath and goes and plays some [Gershwin](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_HQ5GvoQqA&feature=related), and refuses to turn red when everyone claps afterwards. 

***

“Remind me again how the hell I got dragged into this?” McCoy grumbles without any heat.

“Because I can’t play the piano, Scotty’s got his heart set on playing the tambourine, and all three of us love the classics,” Uhura tells him matter-of-factly. “Now, come on, we’re not going to get any good at this unless we practice.”

McCoy hmphs and says under his breath, “I still don’t know how you got the piano into your quarters.” With the piano crammed into Uhura’s quarters, there’s barely enough space for the three of them.

“It helps that the XO of the ship’s her boyfriend,” Scotty comments brightly, sitting down next to McCoy. “And it probably helps that the captain’s your biggest fan, Doctor.”

McCoy lifts his head at that. “Uh—” he starts, but Uhura swats him lightly on the shoulder. 

“Less chatting, more playing,” she insists, and because McCoy’s not an idiot, he listens to Uhura and starts playing Nina Simone again. 

Despite all his grumbling, McCoy’s actually having a good time—Uhura’s got a lovely voice, and Scotty’s doing great with the tambourine and the backing vocals—even if he occasionally laments their refusal to tackle the Animals’ cover instead. 

When they finally come to a banging finish, McCoy’s unable to keep himself from grinning, even if he says gruffly, “Well—we don’t sound half bad.”

“We sound _bloody brilliant_ , you mean,” Scotty corrects him, grinning broadly, and McCoy can’t help but laugh and agree.

 

***

Jim’s taken to asking leading questions about just what, exactly, they’ve got planned, and he’s also taken to talking about how he misses getting those “private concerts, Bones, c’mon, a guy has to get some perks as Captain, doesn’t he?”

McCoy just keeps rolling his eyes and telling Jim to stop being nosy and learn some patience already. He does not let himself think about sitting too close to Jim on a piano bench, or what it means that Jim says he misses it—and really, it’d be easier to let go if Jim would just stop _saying_ things like that.

“Just wait and see, Jim,” McCoy’s taken to saying. 

“Yeah, or you could just tell me now,” Jim always retorts. “That would be just as good. Better, even.”

But McCoy keeps his silence until they’re finally ready to perform, and the night when they’re all finally off-shift at the same time and can perform together, McCoy will admit to a slight case of nerves. To himself, of course, not to anyone else.

But it goes great, right from the moment Nyota lifts her head and sings, “[ _There is a house in New Orleans…_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=77sKlvWeUFQ)” and not a few minutes later, Scotty’s shaking his tambourine, and they’re into the song, McCoy’s head bowed over the keys, the music washing over him like a wave. 

He glances up quickly a time or two, and sees that it’s going over well, people smiling as they listen, Chekov sitting at a table and happily bopping his curly head to the song. 

He’d been a little bit unsure about the piano solos at the very end, but Uhura and Scotty had insisted, and McCoy has to admit, it’s a rush when he gets to them, banging happily at the keys right before Uhura’s voice soars over everything else, and then they come to a crashing halt, the crowd of off-duty crewmembers breaking into applause before they’ve even finished.

Scotty’s the first to stand up and take a bow, and then he and Uhura drag McCoy to his feet, and McCoy ducks his head, his face and neck hot, but he couldn’t stop smiling if he tried.

And in the crowd, Jim’s sitting next to Spock, clapping wildly, his grin splitting his face in half, and McCoy feels that now-familiar twist in his stomach, but for maybe the first time, he doesn’t try to brush it off or push it down. Instead he grins at Jim for a moment, uncomplicated and happy. 

***

“I’m never going to be surprised by anything you do again,” Jim insists a few days later. They’re in the rec room again, and Jim’s managed to ensure that it’s just the two of them there, sitting together on the piano bench as usual.

His voice is warm and his face is lit up as he looks at McCoy, and really—McCoy’s starting to think there is no defense against this, that maybe there never was. 

“Seriously, Bones, if you started moving things with your mind right now, I wouldn’t even be surprised.”

“That would make one of us,” McCoy replies dryly.

Jim grins at him, and nods his head towards the piano. “Well? You going to play something for me or what?”

“Don’t I always?” McCoy asks, already scrolling through the choices on the screen. He’s in the mood for Debussy again, and as he scans through—there’s a song in particular that stands out, given where he is and who he’s sitting next to. 

After a moment of hesitation, he picks it, and [starts to play](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDMovZYNW_U), his fingers steady and sure. 

Jim’s quiet for a moment, and McCoy knows he’s reading the title of the song. “Flaxen hair, huh?” he says finally. “Bones, you trying to tell me something here?” And it could be played off as a joke, that’s probably all it is—but there’s a slight wobble in his voice, a strain McCoy doesn’t usually hear.

McCoy pauses for a moment, and then he stops playing, lifting his hands away from the keys and saying in a distant voice, “Yeah, actually.”

And before Jim can respond, McCoy twists in his seat, and before he can think twice, before he can talk himself out of it—he leans in and kisses Jim on his infuriating, soft, perfect mouth. 

He doesn’t let himself linger, no matter how much he might like to—instead, he pulls away, exhaling shakily against Jim’s lips before he turns back to the piano and starts to play again. If he hits a bum note or two, he figures Jim isn’t going to complain. 

There’s a long moment when the only sound in the room is the piano, and then Jim’s saying softly, “Bones.”

McCoy doesn’t look up, even if his heart’s pounding too fast in his chest. “Yeah?”

Jim’s voice is quiet and steady as he says, “Bones, do that again.”

There’s another bum note, but McCoy doesn’t think anyone would fault him for making it. “What?” he manages.

And Jim’s grabbing him by the shoulders, twisting him around so they’re facing each other, and he’s repeating, his eyes wide and intense, “Bones, do it _again_.”

McCoy stares at him, breathless, and then he’s leaning forward, his eyes fluttering shut despite himself, and he kisses Jim for the second time.

Except this time, Jim’s kissing him back, his mouth falling open against McCoy’s, his hand moving up into McCoy’s hair, responding eagerly, like there’s a chance that he’s been wanting this too, for a fraction as long as McCoy has, only pulling away to murmur against his mouth, “I didn’t think—you’ve never wanted—”

“Moron,” McCoy groans, and at this point, he’s not sure which one of them he’s talking about. He pulls away to look Jim in the face, saying what he’d never planned to admit out loud, either to Jim or to himself. “I’ve always wanted this.”

Jim stares at McCoy for a moment, and then says, “Okay, new rule—you’re not allowed to hide things from me anymore.”

McCoy has to laugh. “Yeah,” he admits, leaning in to kiss Jim again. “I think I can live with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go out to kmousie, thalialunacy, and littledivinity for their help and encouragement. The links throughout the fic are Youtube links to examples of the music that's supposed to be playing at that particular moment, and you're free to click on them or not if you choose. Title comes from the Anya Marina song of the same name.


End file.
